Page 8

Taught from infancy that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

Luncheon at Welton today had been taken in the garden on account of the unexpectedly lovely spring weather. Earlier that morning, I’d had a music class in which Miss Perkins had encouraged me to keep expressing my own personal style, and I was inspired. Toying with the strings and the sounds wasn’t the norm, but it fascinated me. I had experimented with bits of rubber, paper, and metal on the pianoforte strings, and the results had been incredible.

I was still thinking about my next piece when Nori said, “I think we should induct Blythe into the Lady Knights.” We sat on curved benches eating our meals in the sun. She and I were paired up, as were Greer and Lalita.

Greer glanced up. “I agree.”

Biting into my cucumber-and-cold-chicken sandwich, I nodded. “She really came through for us with the race. We wouldn’t have been able to give Sister Mary the money she needed.”

“And when we were at Danforth’s, too,” Greer added. “She didn’t have to help get us out, either.”

Lalita let out a nervous exhale. “Do we trust her, though? We all have a lot to lose if our…activities are made public knowledge. Trust has to be earned.”

The four of us had built strong bonds of friendship, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t or shouldn’t include others. I understood the fear, however. One loose thread could unravel the whole thing, and all of us had too much to lose. “It has to be a unanimous decision,” I said.

“Yes, for me,” Nori said quickly.

“Me too.” That was from Greer.

Lalita chewed her nail. “Can we trial her? It was only the one race, which was dangerous, but still not unlawful like the other thing we do. I don’t want to be imprisoned because of someone’s loose lips. I have enough to deal with having my uncle breathing down my neck this season.”

She had a point. “That’s a good compromise,” I said, and the other two agreed.

After lunch, we filed into the reading salon and took our seats. We weren’t late, but everyone else was already there, including Sarah, Petal, and Blythe. Even Miss Perkins was present, which was unusual. She was always late. Our teacher looked like she had something up her sleeve, and I sat forward in my seat with eager expectation.

Miss Perkins cleared her throat. “We have nearly completed our discussion of Frankenstein, and the final project to wrap up this book will be done in pairs.” Excitement filled me, and some of the girls started eagerly chattering. “The pairs will be chosen at random by me.”

Groans and complaints met that pronouncement.

“Miss Perkins,” Sarah whined. “Can’t we pick our own partners? Surely it would be better for everyone that way?”

For once, we were on the same page, only because if for some reason we got saddled together, I might actually die. I didn’t dislike Sarah, but I did feel that a lot of her behavior was performative. She only said and did things that would make her look best in any situation, not out of the goodness of her heart. That didn’t make her a bad person; it just meant that we’d likely butt heads.

“There are seven of us,” Greer pointed out, glancing around the room. “The pairings will be uneven.”

Miss Perkins smiled. “Someone will have the misfortune of being paired with me. Now, before we get into the project ideas and unions, I wish to have one more discussion. In the novel, Victor tells Robert that knowledge can lead to ‘destruction and infallible misery.’ What are our thoughts on this?”

Nori raised her hand, and Miss Perkins allowed her the floor. “I suppose it depends on how the knowledge is employed. Misery is a consequence of its misuse.”

I gave a thoughtful nod. “I don’t believe it all leads to destruction. Knowledge is information used by a person to grow and create. If it is used to cause harm, then yes, it can lead to one’s downfall. But knowledge should be about becoming better than we are, not worse.”

“Victor Frankenstein thought he was advancing himself by creating his creature,” Miss Perkins pointed out. “In his mind, that made him a better scientist. So, who defines what is better? Why does his experimentation make him a nefarious person?”

“Maybe because he tampered with the laws of humanity without all the facts?” Nori suggested. “He knew the basics, but he wasn’t equipped to handle his creation. That’s hubris.”

Blythe’s hand shot up, her face animated. Perhaps our influence was having a positive effect on her shyness. “The fact that he created the creature isn’t what makes him nefarious; it’s the actions he takes afterward by abandoning it. The creature could have been good had it been taught how to love.”

“Dr. Frankenstein’s behavior to abandon it wasn’t unethical,” Lalita objected. “A doctor can use laudanum to treat or to kill. Too much, and it’s poison. He has a moral responsibility to other people, who might be hurt by his choices and actions. Knowledge can be used to help or cause damage. In this case, the latter result was obvious. He just couldn’t see that.”

“Why was it obvious?” Blythe asked.

Lalita scowled as if she didn’t expect the rebuttal. “The creation was unnatural. Against nature and God. Only He can bring life into the world.”

“She’s right,” Petal agreed vehemently. “No good can come of piecing something broken together. Besides, who could love something that looked like that?”

Nori swung around with narrowed eyes. “Re-creating something new from a broken thing isn’t always ugly or useless. The Japanese art of kintsugi involves the repair of cracked pottery with gold, and the result is often quite stunningly exquisite art. Even the deepest of scars can be beautiful.”

Petal scoffed. “Your comparison is hardly fair. A monster is not a tea bowl.”

“Outstanding observation, Miss Kaneko,” Miss Perkins said, ignoring Petal’s outburst, her gaze landing on the rest of us. “So, let’s consider this. Do appearance and beauty make something more lovable? Could you love a snake or a rat?”

“Snakes are beautiful,” Greer said.

“Disgusting!” Sarah said, shuddering. “No, I could never love either of them.”

I shrugged. “For me, both have value. Snakes hunt rodents. Rats get rid of waste. They are natural parts of a healthy environment. I’m not quite sure I would be able to love them, though I do not judge those who do.”

“What about people?” Miss Perkins asked. “Does beauty impact how they are treated?”

That had an easy answer. Beauty was revered in the ton. Beautiful people were surely given more attention, more access. However, external beauty did not always mean that a person was kind or good. A pretty face could hide a rotten heart, as I knew only too well, having been in the same circle as Poppy Landers, who had tried to destroy Ela twice.

But the truth was that loveliness of one’s disposition opened many doors, particularly for women, to make a good match—the single goal of our existence. Beauty was worth much more than our brains, especially when it elevated the social status of the men we were with, while intelligence could be considered a threat to a man’s own position. And intelligence from a woman whose beauty could not uplift a man was the ultimate offense.

Truthfully, I’d much rather be praised for being smart.

“Of course, it does,” I said. “But ideals of worth are different all over the world. England is not the epicenter of civilization. In other countries, like India and Russia, women like Rani Ahilyabai Holkar and Catherine the Great were celebrated for their intelligence and their physical aptitude, not just their appearance. In fact, Catherine was no great beauty herself.”

Miss Perkins cleared her throat. “And who is to decide whether that last bit is true, Lady Zenobia? Beauty is subjective, is it not?”

I felt my cheeks warm at her challenge, but she had a point. I nodded. “You’re right. It is.”

Greer stuck her hand in the air. “And comeliness can be varied by culture, too. Hair color, skin color, eyebrow shape, lip fullness, head coverings, forehead shape and size, nose length, the list is endless, and the preferences are vast.”

“Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,” Nori added with the slightest peek at Blythe, which I wouldn’t have caught if I hadn’t been looking directly at her. “Everyone’s tastes are different.”

Sarah curled one of her sleek reddish-blond locks around her fingers and simpered. “There’s nothing wrong with being pretty, if you ask me.”

“Of course not. But what is deemed as such is being questioned,” I pointed out, beating Greer to the punch, though from the glare on her face, she would have been much harsher in her reply.

Sarah had probably been told from birth how perfect she was. She was a beautiful girl, there was no doubt, with her fine features, glossy hair, and smooth, rosy complexion. But there was something to be said for a person becoming less attractive the more one got to know them. Vanity was beauty’s downfall. My favorite author—though Mary Shelley was fast becoming a favorite—Jane Austen had written that “vanity working on a weak head produces every sort of mischief.”

I added, “A kind heart should matter more than any surface appearance. I’d much rather be plain and astute than pretty and witless.”

“So says the diamond of the season, regaled as beautiful and oh so witty,” Petal muttered as Sarah let out a loud scoff.

My spine tightened. “I didn’t campaign for the title!”

“And yet your perceived beauty and privilege have earned you the most coveted spot in our set,” Sarah said.

Swallowing hard, I paused. Had I taken stock of my own advantages? The truth stung, but I wouldn’t deny credit where it was due. “Fair point, Miss Peabody.”

She smirked. “The monster could have had the kindest heart in the world, and it would not have mattered,” Sarah went on. “Fear of the unnatural is a powerful emotion. If a snake approached you, would you pet it and whisper how pretty it was, or would you flee? Instinct is innate.”

“Someone with an interest in snakes might,” I replied.

“But would you?”

I refused to be baited. “We are not only talking about me, now, are we?”

Miss Perkins slid off her table and clapped. “Excellent discourse, all of you. So, can beauty be a sharper tool than knowledge? Are both things equally dangerous? Or is one more lethal than the other?”

“Any tool can be lethal if used with malicious intent,” Nori said with a shrug. “If every romantic poet is to be believed, beauty is a fierce weapon that can certainly lead a man to war. Think of Helen of Troy or even Sita in the Ramayana. Both women were abducted, which was followed by war, and claims of infidelity.” She exhaled. “And one could argue that what we are doing here, gaining knowledge beyond the realms of what is acceptable for our sex, is dangerous as well.”

Miss Perkins’s eyes glinted. “In what way?”

“Both women are examples of how power can be wielded.” Nori tapped her temple. “It is no secret that society wants us biddable and obedient, but we have our own minds. A woman with a book can be just as deadly as one with a coquettish smile.”

Our secret book club could not bring upon a war, but we could certainly disrupt the aristocracy with our words and progressive thinking.

“Well put, Miss Kaneko.” Miss Perkins pulled a pocket watch on a chain from her skirts. “Before we run out of time and you get reprimanded for being late to chapel this evening, let me assign the final project.” I reached for my notebook and pencil as she passed between our seats. “Each pair must create something, either a new creation or one composed of existing parts. Anything goes as long as it is original, and upon presentation”—she smiled widely—“or animation, your peers must all be prepared to discuss whether it lived or failed.”

“Capital,” Greer said, blue eyes wide with anticipation.

Our teacher smiled and consulted a small sheet of parchment. “And now for the pairs. Miss Sorensen, you are with Lady Petal.” The joyful expression on Greer’s face morphed to pure horror. “And before you argue, my decisions are final. Miss Danforth, you are with Miss Kaneko, and Miss Peabody is with Miss Varma.” Her warm gaze met mine. “That means you’re with me, Lady Zenobia, unless you have any objections.”

I’d suspected that I might be the lone man out, considering I was the only day student in the group. The others would be able to work on their projects more often. I didn’t mind. I adored Miss Perkins, and she’d always been enthusiastic about my music. Maybe I could do something with that for the project. “None at all, Miss Perkins.”

When classes were dismissed, I decided to head back to my home in Grosvenor Square. I did not have to go to chapel with the others, which I know rankled Mrs. Perkins, but my father’s donation made her keep those opinions to herself. Some days I went, as I found theology quite interesting, but today my father had summoned me.

My nerves thinned as the carriage approached our family’s residence, and I pulled myself together. This conversation would undoubtedly be about my suitors, and he would make some ultimatum about my duty. I did not relish fighting with my father. We were much too similar in temperament to ever see eye to eye. I did not have my mother’s patient and wise disposition, though I had inherited her passionate nature. Combine that with my father’s intractability, and the outcome was an impulsive, hardheaded young woman.

I was under no illusions as to my place in society, but I wanted to live …even if it was only for a few months, on my own terms. I wanted to follow my heart and my dreams. I wanted to make my own choices instead of adhering to the ones that had been made for me since birth. I was on the cusp of being tied to a fate that wasn’t of my choosing. My father might have allowed Keston to yank on the leash of duty, but I would never be so lucky.

I murmured my thanks to Brennan, the coachman, as I descended the carriage and climbed the steps with leaden feet. Our very efficient butler opened the front door with a smart bow. I swear in all my eighteen years I had never seen that man crack a smile. He took great pride in his position and did not suffer any fools, including my brother and me, who had tried many a time to break that stoic facade.

“Lady Zenobia,” he intoned. “His Grace is in his study.”

“Thank you, Forsythe,” I said, handing him my cloak, bonnet, and gloves. “Did he say he wanted to see me right away?”

“Posthaste, my lady.”

My father’s schedule was always posthaste. A perverse part of me wanted to keep him waiting, so I strolled leisurely up to my bedchamber and refreshed myself before wandering to the music room. I knew I was acting like the spoiled child my father often accused me of being, but my small personal rebellions were too satisfying to relinquish so easily.

I ran my fingers over the polished keys of the grand pianoforte. It wasn’t like the square one in my carriage house—no, this one was a priceless piece with rich rosewood, gold inlays, and custom engravings. Though I was always encouraged to play Bach and Mozart, my willfulness seemed to stretch to my music. The piece I played was one of my own original compositions, one I’d worked on weeks ago with Miss Perkins. Considering the proximity of the music room to my father’s study, I knew he would hear it.

Unlike the elegant, harmonious progressions of the classical masters, this piece was experimental and sharp, and fluctuated between tender and thunderous. The complexity of the dissonant notes reflected my contrary mood and the despair currently flooding my spirit. And now, buoyed by my teacher’s encouragement, I reached inside and plucked the strings harder to change up the sound. It would irritate my father to no end. He called such music common.

“Dearest,” a lilting voice said, and I glanced up to see my mother at the entrance to the music room. “I did not know you were here. Weren’t you supposed to be at Welton?”

My fingers didn’t stop the chord progression, flying over the keys with practiced form, the bass repetitive and harsh. “I was summoned,” I said, and scowled. “By His Majesty.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” my mother said, walking into the room. As always, the duchess was impeccably put together, in a cream-and-saffron-yellow dress that made her rich brown skin glow. Inky braids were wound around her head in a series of intricate clusters, the style framing her face like a crown. My mother wore her beauty with effortless ease, but the gleam of intelligence in those dark eyes made everyone in her presence think twice about underestimating her.

My fingers faltered. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m just—”

She folded her elegant body onto a nearby sofa. “I know. Continue, please. Is this a new piece? I haven’t heard you play in an age.”

“Papa hates it,” I said sullenly, hitting two notes in constant repetition on my left hand and discordant chords on my right.

“Music is expression, my girl, and yours is evocative and powerful.” Her caring gaze met mine. “Never let anyone, including your father, impact your voice.”

“He’s impossible,” I said as I finished the piece on a dramatic crescendo. “I cannot abide by all his intolerable rules.”

“Your father only wants what is best for you, Zenobia,” she said softly. “And I’ve taught you how to find your own way within the parameters of what is expected of ladies of our station, haven’t I?”

“I’m not you,” I whispered. I wasn’t even a quarter of how extraordinary she was.

“No, dearest, you’re you, and there’s no one better to tell your story.”

I moved from the piano bench and sat beside her, resting my head on her side. “Were you happy when Grandfather arranged your match with Papa?”

A chuckle emerged from her. “Not at first. We were strangers. He was arrogant and high-handed and presumed he could tell me the opinions I ought to have. I divested him of that notion rather quickly.” Her arm slid over my shoulders, pulling me into her. That was one thing about my mother—she could be dressed in the fanciest of ball gowns and that would never stop her from holding us close any chance she had. “I rather loathed him, actually.”

“Telling tales about me again, Duchess?” my father said from the doorway.

“Always,” Mama said as she crooked a finger for the duke to join us. It never ceased to astound me how different he was around her. My father was a rigid man, but his edges softened whenever she was near. If only every conversation I had with him could be with my mother present.

“Forsythe said you had returned,” he said, his cool blue gaze flicking to me after he pressed a kiss to my mother’s brow. To my surprise, he sat on my other side, sandwiching me between them as they had when I was a small child. Those were simpler times, when my wishes did not clash with his, when obedience took little effort. I’d always wanted to please them…until I didn’t.

The moment of peaceful nostalgia was much too fleeting as my father cleared his throat. “We must discuss the matter of suitors.”

“Alexander,” Mama warned. “Let it rest.”

“She must marry, Sanaa.” His stare cut to hers above me as they exchanged a prolonged look that I didn’t care to decipher. “This is her second season. I’ve tried to be patient and to be progressive in that I’ve let her have the time to choose someone pleasing to her, but at the end of the day, she has to be settled.”

My mother must have seen my ferocious expression. She placed a hand on my father’s arm. “Darling, these things can take time. It is only her second season.”

“A second, then a third or a fourth? And what then?” A muscle in his jaw flexed as he sighed. “I’ve been lenient. I’ve accommodated your wishes. What other father in the peerage allows his daughter such freedoms? We have to face the reality that marriage is your noble duty, Zenobia. One cannot escape one’s fate.” He scrubbed a palm over his face. “I shall permit you this one last season, but if you haven’t found someone by the end of it, I will select a husband for you. Is that understood?”

I rose, all warmth gone as coldness seeped through my veins. “As you wish, Your Grace. Your demands are more than clear.”

“Zenobia…,” my mother said.

“No, Mama. I understand that duty comes before all, that I am nothing but a commodity, and that my happiness pales in comparison to preserving aristocratic bloodlines.”

Fists balled, I bit my lip so hard the taste of copper pennies flooded my mouth as I swallowed past the enormous knot in my throat, trying desperately not to burst into sobs. I didn’t wait to hear what more either of them had to say and swept from the room.